The Exact Opposite of Okay

by Laura Steven

  “Anyway,” I say, swallowing my comparatively meager pain, “how was your day?”

  10.01 p.m.

  Once I’m alone, I take a deep breath and open the World Class Whore blog. Not in a self-flagellatory way; I just want to wrap my head around what’s happening, and the way it went down with Vaughan in the woods made it hard to do that. As much as I’m an insane extrovert and love being around people, when something major goes down I need time to process it alone.

  I wash my face and brush my teeth, change into prehistoric PJs, switch the lights off in my room and climb into bed. I then proceed to create a cocoon-type setup with the duvet and some pillows, pulling the covers all the way over my head and curling up into the fetal position. I’m not sure what it is about this maneuver that feels so comforting. If I was in any way academic, I’d probably posit that it’s something to do with recreating the atmosphere of the womb. But alas, I am not in any way academic. Remind me to ask Ajita.

  The website takes a few seconds to load on my phone screen, but it’s still not long enough. Even though I know exactly what I’m about to see, it’s still like a punch to the gut when the screenshot flashes up.

  My boobs and my va-jay-jay, on show to the world. Just under the pic of Vaughan’s above-average length, below-average girth, bending slightly to the left penis. For which I’m 104 percent sure he will not receive anywhere near as much criticism as me.

  I stare and stare and stare at the photo of me, gut churning uncomfortably. It’s not that I’m body conscious or anything. I’m not. But I am old-fashioned in the sense that I like to give people individual permission to view my boobs and other bits, rather than allowing blanket access to seven billion internet users. That may seem unreasonable to you, but it’s true.

  Oh my God oh my God oh my God. This feeling of violation is skin-crawlingly terrible. It feels like being on the criminal side of a police mirror, where everyone can see you, but you can’t see them. I am an exhibit, laid bare before every single kid in my school – hell, probably my town. And I feel so exposed.

  Again, I’m not body conscious. But your private parts are just so . . . intimate. I have a hard enough time showing them to my family physician. A couple of years ago I had a weird lump on one boob, and even though it turned out to be nothing, I still think about the embarrassment of being fondled by a middle-aged male doctor with stale coffee breath, while I tried and failed to make conversation about the strength of the dollar.

  Now that mortification is multiplied a thousandfold. And I still don’t know anything about currency depreciation.

  1.14 a.m.

  Fuck. What am I going to do?

  Wednesday 28 September

  8.05 a.m.

  Feel beyond anxious at the thought of going to school today. I woke up stupidly early again this morning, so decided to write a sketch about a senator and his son who get stuck in a waste incinerator like that hugely traumatic scene in Toy Story 3. Not that I am harboring any violent feelings toward the Vaughan family or anything.

  At least there is slight progress on the eyebrow front. Ajita lent me her pencil, which is a good five shades too dark for me, and I attempted to fill in the little gap. Because of the mismatched hue, I then had to even up the same spot on other side. So I have a very attractive ombré-caterpillar-type situation on my forehead, a look which I am sure we can all agree will hit beauty vloggers’ screens anytime now.

  I’m too scared to look at the online reaction to the nudes. The mid-sex garden bench pic was one thing, but this is so . . . explicit. Every time I remember they’re out there, which is roughly every 2.3 milliseconds, I get a horrible sinking sensation in my belly, like when you go over a speed bump too fast. I obsess over who might be looking at these pictures of me – bare, exposed, eighteen – and judging me for them. Judging my body; my choices; my life.

  I know this will blow over eventually. But until then, it’s going to be hell.

  9.01 a.m.

  Ajita, Danny and I arrive at the school gates to find a cluster of freshmen armed with smartphone cameras pointed straight at me. As soon I get within twenty feet of them, they start to snap pics and hit record, and I hear a couple of them narrating my humiliating entrance to their bazillion followers live on social media. Danny wraps an arm protectively around my shoulders, and I don’t really know how to take it in the context of everything else that’s happened between us, but in the moment I’m just grateful for the support, both emotional and physical. It steadies me.

  Then someone shouts, “Jeez, O’Neill, have you banged Wells too?”

  It is at this point that Ajita delves into her backpack, pulls out some overripe kiwi fruits and hurls them straight at the freshmen scum. Green pulp explodes everywhere. It’s fantastic to behold. Then she yanks my arm and hauls me and Danny past them without looking back.

  When I look at the kiwi juice all over her hands quizzically, she simply says, “We were out of eggs.”

  9.14 a.m.

  In the last thirteen minutes, I have been sarcastically told “nice tits” in excess of 587 times.

  9.37 a.m.

  Oh shit and merde and scheiß and every other linguistic variable on the word. Just when he was beginning to swallow his confusing feelings and support me through this ordeal, Danny found the mashed-up tulips in the woods. Of course he did! Why would anything run smoothly! I’m a writer. I should’ve known the tulips were some sort of Chekhov’s gun and were doomed to go off in the third act. [I know this is still only the second act, but who are you, the story-structure police?]

  He found them all muddy and smooshed before first period. He just went out to get some fresh air [I have tried to explain to him why this is so overrated but he won’t listen. In conclusion, if people just listened to me a bit more we’d find ourselves in far fewer upsetting situations]. To clear his head. And boom, he walks straight into the mangled flower carcasses.

  Because he is a highly dramatic individual, instead of just leaving the flowers there and letting me off the hook, he gathers them up in a paper bag, brings them back into school and dumps them on my desk just before chemistry is about to start.

  “You left these behind last night.”

  It’s such a petty move, but I’m struggling to be mad due to lack of energy and enthusiasm, and the fact that the only thing I’m capable of thinking about right now is the nude photograph of me on the internet.

  “It wasn’t me,” I explain feebly.

  Danny shakes his head at me and flumps dejectedly into the seat in front of me.

  Yeah. Like he’s the one who should be feeling sorry for himself right about now. You’d think he’d be concerned about the emotional stability of his best friend, who’s just been exposed in all her naked glory to the entire world, and maybe, just maybe, put his own butthurt feelings aside for once.

  But no. This is all about him, like it always is. He’s incapable of imagining how situations affect other people, and thinks solely of his own feelings. That’s what the flowers symbolize: he was hurt that I rejected him, so he set out to fix it. To make himself feel better. Never mind how I felt; that I was content with my decision to stay friends.

  I’m getting tired of his bullshit. Unfortunately, right now I need all the friends I can get.

  3.56 p.m.

  So the entire school has now seen my lady parts. And holy backlash, Batman.

  I am essentially Cersei Lannister in that messed up-scene [spoiler alert] where she’s walking naked through the streets of King’s Landing while the peasants chant “shame” and throw vegetables at her. [This seems hugely unnecessary and quite wasteful if you ask me. These people are supposed to be starving and yet they fling food around like chimps.] At this point I can only be grateful nobody has shorn my hair in a similar fashion because I am the last person in North America who could convincingly pull off a pixie cut. My ears have something of a elephantine vibe to them, so I really need the scarecrow hair to balance things out.

  [As usual
, I digress. Imagine being able to hold a coherent and logical conversation! What larks!]

  The rest of my day at school is an unmitigated nightmare. Everywhere I go, kids of all ages and social standings point, whisper and laugh, the words “slut” and “whore” and “legend” echoing around the corridor. The latter was in reference to the two dudes who bedded me, as that is the way of high school and also the entire world. At one point I pass Prajesh in the hallway. He’s by himself, but he doesn’t say hey to me. He just tucks his chin into his chest and barrels past as though I’m not there.

  I get it. I do. If he’s already feeling like a bit of a pariah, the last thing he wants to do is associate with an actual pariah and alienate himself even further. But it still stings.

  Vaughan’s dad arrives at lunchtime and practically drags his son out of the school gates, probably to prepare his press statement about how Vaughan is an innocent party in this debacle, and the rumors surrounding his involvement are nothing more than high school hearsay. Honestly, I don’t even care. After his flower-stomping and woe-is-me performance I’d be quite glad not to be sexually associated with him.

  I was sort of hoping a bunch of other girls in school might rally around me in a show of feminist support, but alas, this is not what happens.

  When I’m using the bathroom just after lunch, some horrid creature with an incredibly unoriginal sense of humor says loudly to her pal: “No wonder she’s peeing. Being pregnant makes you pee a lot. Ha ha ha!” Seriously. How is anyone so unfunny? It is truly beyond me.

  To be fair, her friend promptly fact-checks this lackadaisical attempt at humor and says, “I don’t think she’s pregnant. She’s just a whore. With lopsided boobs and love handles.” More giggles.

  Delightful.

  In all seriousness, I don’t really blame the other kids for their excessive reactions. After all, it’s human nature to experience a kind of dark thrill whenever Something Happens. It’s like me and my love of other people’s drama. I think anything that helps pass the time in a slightly more interesting manner is always going to become a topic of conversation. So yeah, I don’t blame them for their fascination.

  And then, if you delve even deeper into your own psyche, you realize that you still experience the dark thrill even when the Something is happening to you. You get that jolt of excitement, especially in those first few moments before reality sinks in. When I first scrolled through the website – before it felt real – I felt a strange kind of . . . buzz. Tragedy is stimulating, you know?

  I don’t know why this is a thing. Maybe because, as a species, humans are generally just bored. That’s why we keep inventing new technologies, in the hope that this will finally be the thing that cures our boredom forever. It’s why we love smartphones so much, I reckon. And I’d bet a lot of criminals – serial killers, arsonists, hackers – are probably at least partially motivated by the dark thrill they experience when Something Happens. Hell, it’s probably why someone created World Class Whore. Restlessness. A desire for entertainment.

  Anyway. I’ll stop arguing that murderers are just bored. I clearly have a tendency to rant incoherently when I’m upset. Moving on.

  I’m hanging out with Ajita and Danny tonight. I wonder just how mad he is about the flower thing. Maybe witnessing my brutal public shaming will have made him feel a tad sorry for me. Usually my toes would curl at the idea of such sympathy but like I say, right now I’ll take any kindness I can get.

  Speaking of which, Ajita did something very thoughtful for me earlier. She made me laugh again! Yes, I am still capable of such jubilance. She arrived at my house with a beautifully wrapped package and a gift card written in her brother’s calligraphy pen. It read:

  For when times get really tough. Love, A xo

  And it was a bottle of bleach for me to drink!! She just gets me on a soul-deep level.

  [I apologize if my bi-chapterly references to death-by-bleach are in any way triggering. You may have noticed this, but I use humor as an emotional crutch. Only twice have I ever considered actually drinking toilet cleaner, but we shall save those stories for another time. I am just a goldmine of hilarious yet emotionally wrought tales. You lucky devils. Good job on your decision to purchase/pirate this tome.]

  4.08 p.m.

  Text from Carson.

  Hey, Iz. Sorry for dropping off the radar lately – family stuff. Anyway, if you wanna meet up and chat about anything that’s going on, give me a shout. Playing b-ball this afternoon, but free all day tomorrow. Let me know. C

  Why is my chest fluttering like some sort of lovesick teenager? Seriously. This is Carson Manning we’re talking about. Class clown! Brisk fornicator! Why is my ridiculous crush on him escalating despite everything that’s going on?

  There’s another part of me that’s relieved. After the debacle with Danny punching a locker, and then the sudden appearance of the WCW website, and then the leakage of my nude photo, an insecure part of me wondered if Carson would tap out of . . . whatever he and I are. I know he’s a generally good dude, but even so, it’s a lot of drama to willfully be associated with. And also it can’t be nice having the whole world know you only lasted a few seconds during a drunken one-night stand. Men inexplicably care about that kind of thing, as if lasting more than an hour in the sack is vital to their masculinity.

  Look at me! Enduring a full-blown character assassination and yet still concerning myself with the sexual reputation of a fuckboy! Danny Wells could stand to learn a thing or two about empathy from me. [Oops, right back to sounding arrogant once again. Swings and roundabouts.]

  6.21 p.m.

  After school we go to Ajita’s to film a sketch or two. And, you know, generally take my mind off the hideous state of affairs plaguing my existence.

  Our last YouTube upload racked up a dizzying 418 views, so we’re feeling quite high on our success and just the right amount of cocky to capitalize on it. We’ve roped in our fellow theater nerd Sharon, a Chinese-American girl with literally the best deadpanning skills you’ve ever seen in your life, to help out with a topical sketch I wrote before all the screenplay competition stuff kicked off. It’s essentially making a mockery of the “selfie pay” system MasterCard want to introduce – more silly than cuttingly satirical, but sometimes I’m just not in the mood to produce work of SNL quality.

  It starts off with the following announcement over a bank’s loudspeaker: “Issues with selfie pay, up to and including dissatisfaction with the quality of your own face, are unlikely to be resolved in branch. Thank you.”

  And then in walks a dude with a bag over his head, claiming that he is in fact also having problems with selfie pay. Obviously the branch manager is all, “Well, sir, on first diagnosis I’d say the paper bag over your head might be the issue.”

  Anyway, it transpires that the disgruntled customer was involved in a cycling accident – a head-on collision with a Crisis Prevention truck. Because plausibility is not a great concern in skit-writing (which is precisely why I love it), this has left him with ISIS imprinted on his cheek. He’s all: “I uploaded a photo to my Facebook page and was contacted by an alarming number of admiring jihadis. Next thing I know, the FBI are on my doorstep. For some reason they found the truck story pretty far-fetched. After police tackled me to the ground outside a subway station, I thought a precaution couldn’t hurt. Hence the paper bag.”

  Then the bank manager tries to get him to register a new face to his records, and he gets pretty mad at the whole fiasco. Like: “Will this override my previous face? It’s important you understand that I won’t be walking around with ISIS stamped onto my cheek indefinitely. Just until the swelling goes down.”

  She won’t listen and he ends up yelling about how he’s an upstanding member of this country and how he’s fairly devastated that his own face is now a billboard for the gangrene of humanity. It’s all very touching stuff.

  So as you can see, my brand of humor relies heavily on farcical events. But it actually feels pretty good to
do something comedy and writing related in the midst of all the chaos. It kind of . . . centers me, if that makes sense. I know who I am when I’m writing and filming and telling jokes. And it’s always nice to have people laughing with you, not at you.

  Danny is last to rock up, so I run through lines with Sharon while Ajita messes with lighting – a very professional and advanced combination of desk lamps, overhead chandeliers and one lonely light reflector. Once the set is all sorted [it’s in Ajita’s father’s study and not very convincingly banklike, but what can you do with no budget?] we just have to wait for Danny to arrive with his camera and mikes.

  Ajita’s phone buzzes and she looks at the name on her screen discreetly. I wonder if it’s Carlie. I feel kind of terrible for still not addressing this possible romance with Ajita herself, but it’s been a crappy week and I’m so emotionally overwhelmed. I know it’s not an excuse, though. I need to be a better friend. She’s been so great with me over the last few weeks, and I should repay the favor. I make a mental note to check in with her next time we’re alone, even though it might be kinda uncomfortable for both of us. Emotional conversations are not our strong suit.

  Eventually Danny arrives, flustered from hauling the tripod on foot, and barely looks at me as we fumble with the equipment. That’s when I remember how pissed he is about the mangled-flower fiasco. Should I mention it to him? Should I brush it under the rug? Should I leave for Mexico sooner than first anticipated? There is just no right answer.

  Maturely I decide to crack a relentless stream of “your mom” jokes at him until he softens [not like that, stop it]. The genius thing about this tactic is he really cannot crack any back on account of the fact my mom is dead, so it would just be unnecessarily cruel and harsh.

  However, the only effect this has is making Ajita laugh so hard a little bit of wee comes out, and she has to go for a shower to sort her life out. Thus leaving Danny and me making small talk with Sharon, who is lovely but deadpan in real life too, so it’s hard to tell what she’s thinking. It could just as easily be “wow, my new friends are so cool and original” as it could “what a bunch of morons”. There is just no way of knowing.